


Moon Watching

by Supernova95



Series: Home Alone [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU - Comicverse, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supernova95/pseuds/Supernova95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim loves watching the moon when his parents go away…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon Watching

Tim huddles his knees to his chest as he sat on the small window pane; watching the strong silent moon slowly rise over the eastern horizon. This was always the time it appeared biggest, and he liked looking at it; studying it. Tonight there was a mist hanging over the sea, giving the rising moon a beautiful golden glow. Its mare and craters, exaggerated by the satellite’s size, brought a glint of wonder to his eyes. It still marvelled him how the moon could be so battered and bruised and yet still look so beautiful. He wished he could be the same.

 

He loved spending his nights out on his little ledge, especially when his parents were away. The moon… gave him company, even if it was an inanimate lump of rock. He loved thinking about all the old tales about the moon, like the man in the moon, or hey-diddle-diddle, and even some different cultures such as the Navajo tales of spirits, or the ancient Egyptian customs surrounding Nut and Geb. However by far was the moon spirit tale from Avatar: The Last Airbender. He sometimes imagined, when he was out in the garden, that he was a bender… sometimes he even imagined himself the Avatar… until his parents came outside and told him to stop such foolishness. That it was unbecoming of him. That he should act more grown up. He silently wondered if other kids his age were allowed to play outside, probably not… it was his parents who told him to stop, and his parents knew best; his parents knew how a five-year-old **should**  act. He just found it hard sometimes, as hard as he tried he still made mess and acted in a way unbecoming of him.

He really hated disappointing his parents. When he did the house always seemed to erupt in noise that made his ears ring for hours. It was times like those when he would sit at his window and watch the world go by… which is what he was doing now. But tonight was special, because tonight was when his parents got home from a three month long expedition to Inca settlements in South America.

As much as they loved owning and running Drake Industries his parents also loved going on archaeological expeditions. Really loved it. They usually went on four or five a year, lasting usually only a month long and always leaving Tim behind, he was too young and too fragile for the expeditions. His mom had been so upset for the first couple of months after Tim had been born because she thought that she would never get to go on an expedition ever again.

_“Jack, Jack what do we do? I-I-We…we can’t just leave him… can we?”_

That was when Tim got his first child-minder. He had child-minders until he turned five and his parents deemed him capable of looking after himself when they were gone, and child-minders for such long periods of time were expensive were they not? It was passed on as an honour, a graduation of sorts; he supposed all five year olds went through it… right?

That was why he never mentioned it at school; everyone’s parents did it… why should his do anything different? And he was pretty good at looking after himself, he figured out the dishwasher and washing machines after a couple of days. He was really relieved that he did because he was close to hyperventilation at the mess he was leaving around the house; well at least in the kitchen and his room. He had also found the step ladder after the first week, so he could reach the shelves in the larder instead of just using the tins on the floor. It also meant he could cook on the hobs of the oven without needing to climb on the worktops. Ironing still presented a problem. The first time he was at home alone he had tried, after he had found the step ladder, to iron his newly washed clothes. After turning it on and waiting for a while… like he had seen the nanny do he picked it up with one hand around the handle and one on the metal plate. His screams of pain and the tears rolling down his cheeks notified him that that was a big mistake. His hand was a redie-pinkie colour that was turning into a white blister. He immediately ran to the bathroom and ran the cold water; because that’s what he saw his mom do when she hurt herself on the iron one time, climbing on top of the toilet to be able to reach; he ran his hand under it. The cold water was… soothing and he remained there for as long as he dared, before his breathing started to hitch because too much water was being wasted. When his parents returned home and saw his hand all wrapped up in a bandage they stared at him in disappointment, when they unwrapped it and saw what he had done they told him how stupid he had been, how he needed to grow up and stop messing things up. He would be starting school that fall after all. He couldn’t be seen to be this stupid; Drakes we’re not stupid. He quickly told them; begged them-

_“I’m sorry. Mommy daddy, I’m really really sorry. Please; mommy, daddy I didn’t mean to, please don’t start shouting at me. Please. I didn’t mean to. I promise I’ll do better, I’ll try harder. I promise I won’t be stupid; I’ll be a better son… Just please don’t shout at me… please…”_

\- that he would do better and to please not shout, because shouting led to him crying and him crying led to his parents getting angrier at him and locking him in his room. Keeping him in there until he could learn how to take care of himself properly… Because obviously he couldn’t do  **anything**  without their help-

“ _Such a failure, how could we raise such a child? How could **our**  son make such a mess of everything he does?”_

\- only letting him out for meal times; making him clear up to prove that he could sort out the mess that he leaves all over the place. Not seeming to care that the water was too hot for his already damaged hands.

But Tim knew why they did it. They loved him; he was their son, their only child, their heir. He had to be the best man he could be, they had a responsibility to make him that man, so they make him learn from his mistakes; teaching him how to act; how to be a Drake because they loved him; because how could they not?

So he welcomes being at home alone, because he will be their perfect heir. Who doesn’t care if he’s called names by the people at school. Who can look people in the eye when he’s being shouted at. Who can take the punishment he deserves when he messes things up. Because he’s like a block of un-carved marble. A blank slate that his parents slowly chisel away at, making him rougher to begin with, making him dim and polishless and needing to be refined further; but one day he will be polished; one day he will be a perfect gleaming white marble statue; toned in all appropriate acts of a Drake; buffed and sparkling white marble, pure and pristine. Like the perfect son he should be.

His parents go away and it’s another chunk of marble falling off, being discarded, shaping who he is. But that’s okay because they do it because they love him. So he sits at his window in the dead of night watching the moon rise, using it to count down the hours until they get home.

_-The earth rotates at one degree every four minutes-_

The textbook in the library had said. So he counts in degrees, still twenty degrees to go before they get home, before they walk through the door;

And he smiles.

Smiles because all he’s ever wanted was to be his parents’ perfect son. He’s been trying really really hard lately. He hasn’t made a mess that he’s unable to clear up in weeks. Then again he also is wearing un-ironed cloths… and trying as hard as he can to eat cold foods so he doesn’t have to go near the things that make him hurt, that make him waste water, that make his parents shout at him; because he hates shouting… because all he ever wants to be when he grows up is someone his parents can be proud of, someone who doesn’t make mess, who doesn’t break things, who doesn’t curl up on himself and cry when the other boys at school shove him and call him rude names because he’s a tiny little rich kid who in his sheltered existence is easy pickings. He wants to be a polished block of perfect white marble. He wants to be a Drake.


End file.
